Not Even a Mouse
by themostrandomfandom
Summary: Brittana celebrate their first "alone together" Christmas Eve. Mouseverse.


**Author's Note: This story takes place in an AU which diverges from canon starting from episode 3x13 "Heart." In this timeline, both Santana and Brittany graduated from WMHS in May 2012, and they never broke up. Instead, they moved across the country together and enrolled at UCLA. They live with Mercedes Jones and are currently in their sophomore year at college. Mouseverse.**

* * *

Brittany doesn't know how two things that aren't big deals by themselves can become a big deal just because you put them together to make one thing.

Being alone together? Pretty much awesome but also pretty much not a big deal because Santana and Brittany get to be alone together a lot, like whenever Mercedes goes out for the day and they're at the apartment without her, or when they go out together just to walk and be away. Spending Christmas together? Also way cool but still not a big deal because Santana and Brittany have done it before, like even before they started dating or whatever. But spending Christmas alone together? Somehow a super big deal that's totally freaking Santana out.

Santana hasn't admitted that the idea of her and Brittany spending Christmas alone together for the first time is freaking her out, of course—Brittany can just tell that it is from the way that Santana hedges and fidgets whenever they talk over their plans. Mercedes went home to Lima for Christmas, so Santana and Brittany have the apartment to themselves for like two and a half whole weeks.

Santana could have gone home to Lima for Christmas, too—her parents offered to pay airfare. Brittany's parents also offered to pay airfare, only they wanted Brittany to join them in New Mexico, where they're going to visit Brittany's grandpa and meemaw until New Year's. Santana and Brittany didn't want to be apart, even just for a few days, so they politely declined both offers.

Their decision to spend Christmas in California surprised their parents a bit, but everyone ended up being really cool about it. Their moms even went in together at the Lima P.O. to ship a box of all their family Christmas gifts to California.

Even without Santana saying as much out loud, Brittany can tell that Santana wants so much for everything to be special and perfect over the winter break. Santana doesn't want to disappoint Brittany or to make Brittany regret choosing to spend the holidays with her rather than with family. What Santana doesn't realize is that Brittany could never regret spending time with her. What she also doesn't realize—at least not with her head—is that she and Brittany are a family, just the two of them together.

So.

Part of being a family is taking care of each other, which is why Santana is scheduled to work on Christmas Eve. It's not like she and Brittany are hurting too badly for money or anything—it's just hard to pass up two-hundred extra dollars right at the end of the year before tuition for Winter Quarter is due. Brittany knows Santana feels bad about going in to the café and leaving her alone on Christmas Eve, but Brittany doesn't begrudge Santana the work at all. Honestly, Brittany would have worked Christmas Eve if she could have, too—it's just that her job at the on-campus copy shop goes by the term schedule, so she'll have no shifts until school starts up again.

Santana and Brittany started sharing a bank account last semester. They're trying to be responsible about things and to build up all savings that they can. Santana can score a ton of money by working shifts at the café on Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve. All Santana has to do is go in for a few hours during the day, and she'll get holiday overtime plus time-and-a-half. Brittany loves that Santana is so conscientious about the money thing. She tries to let Santana know as much.

"I doubt anyone will come in on Christmas Eve anyway," Santana says. "I mean, who gets gelato on Christmas Eve? I'll work for a few hours and come home, and then we can, you know, do Christmas Eve stuff, if you want."

She frets a lock of hair between her fingers, nervous, and looks down at the floor instead of at Brittany's eyes. She doesn't want to say "We have to do this" or "We have to do that" for Christmas Eve, Brittany can tell. She's being really careful.

Brittany's heart squeezes in her chest. She knows that Santana is scared of choosing the wrong thing. She also knows that the most important part of this whole big deal is not the _first_ part and not the _alone_ part but the part where she and Santana get to be _together_. She doesn't mind if Santana works, as long as the _together _part happens eventually.

"Maybe I'll come visit you at the café during your shift," Brittany says, wrapping Santana up in a hug, "—you know, get some gelato. You do have peppermint, right?"

Now Santana laughs, golden from the back of her throat. "Of course we do, goofball," she says, ducking her head forward to kiss Brittany on the chin. "But it's way too cold for gelato right now."

"It's California," Brittany shrugs.

Santana volunteers for the earliest shift on Christmas Eve because she doesn't want to have to stay late at the café. That means she has to be up at five so that she can open at six. While people won't want gelato that early, they will want coffee.

When her alarm clock beeps, Santana jolts in bed, and so does Brittany. It's so dark in their room that even the shadows seem unfamiliar. Santana groans and mutters to herself, "I'm up, I'm up, I'm up," peeling away from the pillow, sitting up upon the mattress and rubbing her eyes with messy fists. Brittany starts to sit up, too, but Santana stops her, leaning over to push her down with a kiss. Her hair brushes across Brittany's cheek. "You don't have to get up," she says, voice still smoky from sleep but sweet like it always is whenever she does something out of love for Brittany. "Stay here where it's warm, _chula_."

Brittany does stay where it's warm, but she also rolls over in the bed, watching Santana leave the room in a halo of smartphone screen light.

Santana moves slowly through the darkness, shuffling her feet against the carpet. She feels out the doorframe with an extended hand so that she doesn't knock into it and walks in a kind of wavy way, looking like she would maybe fail a breathalizer test.

She's absolutely adorable.

The bathroom light flicks on across the hallway, and Brittany closes her eyes again, breathing in the scent of Santana's shampoo left against the warm side of Santana's pillow. She hears the whir of the furnace as Santana turns up the heat in the hallway.

When next Brittany opens her eyes, the clock reads 5:34 am, and Santana is leaning over her, pressing a warm kiss to the shell of her ear. Santana's hair is shower-damp. It brushes across Brittany's cheek like a watercolor paintbrush across canvas.

"I'll see you later," Santana whispers.

"You shouldn't go out with wet hair," Brittany mumbles. "You'll catch the Black Death or maybe scurvy." She tries to grab Santana for one last cuddle but can't move her arms out from under the comforter quickly enough.

Santana laughs, throaty, and gives Brittany's ear another kiss. "I'll take my chances. I've had my shots," she smirks, weight lifting from the mattress as she stands. She adjusts her purse strap on her shoulder. "My shift ends at two. Then I can come home, and we can gets our Christmas Eve on."

She means the last part as a joke, but somehow it comes out flittery. She clears her throat and fumbles with the buttons on her jacket.

"I mean, uh, maybe we could watch _A Muppet Christmas Carol _or lie under the tree to look at the lights or something. Whatever you want."

Brittany knows what they choose do shouldn't be a big deal as long as they do it together.

"We might have to put the tree on the kitchen counter if we're going to lie under it," she says, easing the moment. "It's kind of short—like you."

"Hey, now!" Santana warns, reaching out to tickle Brittany under the ribs in retribution.

Brittany laughs and dodges the attack, rolling over in bed. "Don't miss your bus," she tells Santana. And then, more quietly, "Merry Christmas Eve, mouse."

Brittany has never had to spend Christmas Eve day all by herself before. Usually, when she's at home, her family fills the day with board games and a movie marathon. A lot of the time, Santana is there. The house is always filled with smells of sweet and spice and music with bells and children's choirs.

Today is much, much quieter.

Brittany can't really decide what to do.

At first, she goes on Facebook and leaves messages for old friends. She sees that Mike has posted photos from Joffrey's production of _The Nutcracker_, in which he plays Herr Drosselmeyer, and that Puck is posting from Tijuana, Mexico, which is totally confusing. Brittany calls her family and talks to everyone in turn—her mom, dad, sister, grandpa, meemaw, and two random cousins, plus her meemaw's smelly dog, Baxter. Everyone wants to know what Brittany and Santana have planned for later.

"I dunno," Brittany says honestly. "Something awesome, I bet. We'll figure it out."

Brittany goes for a run around the neighborhood because you can totally do that in California in the wintertime. Afterwards, she showers and uses soap that smells like gingerbread. Once she's dressed, she checks on her presents to Santana—the one under the tree that Santana knows about and the one hidden behind the umbrellas in the closet that Santana doesn't know about. Brittany spends twenty-two minutes looking up articles on wassail on the internet. It totally isn't a kind of bird, like she first thought it was.

Even though waiting around in an empty apartment maybe isn't the funnest way to spend Christmas Eve day, Brittany doesn't mind doing it because she knows that good things will happen later. After Santana finishes at work, everything will be awesome. Brittany has never had trouble waiting for Santana for anything. She doesn't have any trouble with it now.

At 12:34 pm, Brittany dons her jacket, mittens, and fuzzy white cat hat and catches the bus that stops outside the café. Santana probably thought that Brittany was joking about showing up for gelato, but Brittany wasn't.

In any case, Santana won't mind the surprise, and maybe Brittany coming in to see her will even make her feel better about having to work on Christmas Eve.

The café only sells five things: coffee, hot chocolate, tea, gelato, and grilled-cheese sandwiches. It almost always has a steady stream of customers trickling in and out the door, but seldom is it busy.

Today, it is busy.

A baby's wail pierces the air, and children and adults laugh and babble everywhere. Everything ebbs and whirls with color and motion and living. Out of fifteen tables, Brittany counts only one that's empty—and it's spackled with drips of pistachio-green gelato. The line coming from the counter stretches out into the dining area.

Apparently, a lot of people want gelato on Christmas Eve.

Santana, her manager—Marc Michaelangelini, who has the coolest name in the world, even if he can be kind of a jerk sometimes—and one other coworker bravely fill orders, doling out gelato samples and frying up cheese sandwiches from behind a panel of glass. Santana wears her hair up in the café regulation ponytail and looks just as frazzled as she ever did at one of Coach Sylvester's brutal six hour cheer practices during high school.

For a second, Brittany considers leaving because Santana seems super busy and Brittany doesn't want to bother her or make her job any harder than it already is, but then Santana spots Brittany, and her eyes brighten with recognition. When Santana leans over to Marc Michaelangelini and mutters something, Brittany reads her lips.

_I'm going on break._

In the blink of an eye, Santana fixes up a Big Fan-sized cup of peppermint gelato and a Medium-sized cup of peppermint hot chocolate, doffs her plastic food-handling gloves, removes her apron, and swings out from behind the counter, joining Brittany at the center of the room. She and Brittany don't kiss hello because Santana's at work and supposed to be professional, even if she's on break, but they do smile at each other in a way that means the same as a kiss. Santana hands Brittany the Big Fan cup of gelato and hangs onto the Medium peppermint hot chocolate for herself.

"Oh, god, I am so glad you're here," Santana says. "Today has been a total nightmare. It's been like this since we opened. I had a lady come in here and ask to sample every kind of gelato we have, and then she didn't even buy any—she just got some tea! I freaked out on her ass and told her that all our gelato is made with Grade A, orangutan breast milk imported straight from Africa. Marc would have fired me on the spot if a whole group of frat boys hadn't come in right then and ordered like every freaking sandwich we make all at once."

Santana rolls her eyes, either at herself or at the day she's been having, and Brittany laughs. She knows she shouldn't like it when Santana is mean to random people, but.

Of course, she doesn't like that Santana's been having a rough day—and especially on Christmas Eve.

She and Santana slide in at the dirty table.

Brittany offers Santana a sympathetic pout. "Gross," she says. "Is there anything I can do to help make it better, sweetheart?"

Maybe it's because they're in a gelato shop, but Brittany can't think of any other way to describe what changes in Santana for the endearment other than to say that Santana melts. It's like Santana's eyes turn darker, sweeter—liquidize. Though Santana has a million reasons to feel on edge, she seems to suddenly forget all of them at once, and Brittany can hear that she has in her voice.

"You visiting me helps _a lot_," Santana says, reaching to cup her hand over Brittany's on the table.

Brittany's heart squeezes in her chest again. Of so many little Santana-things that she loves, one of the things she loves the most is how earnest Santana can sometimes be. Brittany glances at the clock on the wall, checking its decorative coffee spoon-hands.

"You only have like an hour left of your shift," she says. "I could just hang out here until you're done working, and then we could go home together—and, you know, gets our Christmas Eve on."

Santana smiles, earnest, earnest, earnest. "I'd like that," she says.

She takes a sip from her hot chocolate, and Brittany digs into the gelato. After a few sips and a few bites, they trade. Though the café is still packed with patrons, things feel quieter and easier now, just because Santana and Brittany are together.

Taking back the gelato, Brittany asks, "How would you even milk an orangutan anyway?" and Santana almost chokes on her hot chocolate from laughing so hard. "Breathe," Brittany commands, and Santana splutters, but then something catches Brittany's eye—Marc Michaelangelini taking a call at the phone behind the counter, glancing over across the dining area toward Santana, nodding.

Brittany watches Marc hang the phone back on the wall and slough off his plastic gloves, slithering around the counter towards where Santana sits.

Santana's break must be over.

"Hi, Marc Michaelangelini!" Brittany greets as he comes to within talking-distance.

Santana looks up at her manager, smirking. "Um, waiter?" she says, feigning sass. "This table is dirty. You need to clean it." She laughs because she means what she says as a joke—she'll probably clean the table off herself once she finishes up her break—but Marc Michaelangelini doesn't laugh with her.

"Greta just called in," he announces. "She says her kid came down with the chicken pox, and she has the flu, so she's not coming in tonight. I need you to pull a double."

"What? Wait, no, hold up!" Santana splutters. "Hell no! On Christmas Eve?"

There's real alarm in Santana's voice, and Brittany knows it isn't just because she dreads spending another six hours serving gelato. It's also because Santana was counting on getting out of work early so that she and Brittany could finally start their special, perfect first Christmas Eve alone together. Sometimes Santana really doesn't do well when things don't happen according to her plans.

"If you stay tonight, I'll give you New Year's Eve off. You'll make another two-hundred dollars and maybe more. People leave big tips on Christmas Eve night because they feel bad for you, having to serve coffee all night," Marc Michaelangelini shrugs.

He's begging without trying to make it seem that way.

Santana looks to Brittany, stricken, and Brittany can tell that, on the one hand, Santana doesn't want to do anything that might potentially ruin their Christmas Eve together, but, on the other hand, the promise of two-hundred plus extra dollars really tempts Santana, too. Santana wants Brittany to help her know the right thing to choose.

"If you want to stay," Brittany says, "we can just do sleepy stuff later—and I could go home and make us dinner. I could have it waiting for you."

While Brittany would totally love to have Santana home with her right now, Brittany is good at waiting, and she can wait, if Santana needs her to. Brittany says _if _so that Santana can make the choice she wants to make without feeling like Brittany will be disappointed in whatever she chooses to do.

Santana bites her lip, glancing between Marc Michaelangelini and Brittany.

"Things will probably slow down in the next few hours anyway," Marc Michaelangelini says helpfully.

Santana sighs, "Okay, but Greta owes me big. I'm talking diamond bling and naming-her-next-brat-after-me big." She stands up from her chair, pushing her half-finished hot chocolate over to Brittany. She gives Brittany's hand a squeeze. "Six hours, and then I'll be home, and we can do this Christmas Eve thing right."

"It'll be right as soon as you're home," Brittany says, really, really meaning it.

She watches Santana slip back behind the counter and retie her apron. She makes a wish that the second part of Santana's work day will be easier to get through than the first, and, when Santana spares her one last glance, she blows Santana a peppermint kiss from across the dining area—never mind if it's professional or not.

Rather than going back to the apartment right away, Brittany makes a stop at the grocery store in order to pick up ingredients for dinner. On Christmas Eve, Brittany's mom usually roasts turkey, and Santana's mom usually cooks _tembleque_, which is like this coconut-y pudding stuff. Brittany doesn't think that she can make either of those foods, so she picks out something easier that she knows Santana will like anyhow.

Brittany spends the next few hours at the apartment tidying things, setting up for dinner, and watching dance videos on Youtube. As the hours wear on, she feels a mounting excitement. Santana will be home soon, and then they can have their first ever alone-together-Christmas Eve.

Only.

The kitchen clock reads 5:19 pm, and Brittany's cellphone vibrates, loud, against the counter. A picture of Santana making a kissing face pops up on Brittany's screen.

"Santana?" Brittany says, accepting the call.

Brittany expects that maybe Santana is calling during a break, maybe just to check in or to talk to Brittany about how they're going to celebrate Christmas Eve later on. At first, that's how the call starts—talking about little things.

"Hey, BrittBritt," Santana says. "How are things going to home? You holding down the fort?"

Except.

Santana's voice sounds funny—high and somehow airy. Someone else might think that Santana had started coming down with a cold, but Brittany has heard Santana talk this way before. She knows that this is Santana's trying-not-to-cry voice.

Santana doesn't wait for Brittany to reply to her question. Instead, Santana continues talking, almost like she has to do it, like she can't stop because, if she does stop, something bad will happen.

"Things are still crazy here," she says. "It's like everybody in L.A. wants gelato, and they, like, have to have it _right now_. Remind me to tell Marc where he can stick it the next time he asks me to pick up a double, okay? Like—just—" Santana hits a snag, and Brittany hears her gulp down a wet, whimpering breath. "BrittBritt?" Santana croaks, talking around what must be a giant lump in her throat.

Suddenly, Brittany's heart feels like a piece of dampened paper crushed into a ball, tight and small and flimsy. Brittany imagines Santana standing in the break room, hugging herself with her free arm, the phone pressed to her ear. Just by the sound of Santana's voice, Brittany can tell that this is sad-crying and not hurt-crying or angry-crying or happy-crying.

"Oh, honey, what is it?" Brittany coos. "Santana, what's wrong?"

Santana draws another wet, whimpering breath. "It's just," she says, "everyone is being _so awful_. This one guy yelled at me for like ten full minutes because we ran out of strawberry gelato, and then Marc got on me for not picking up the phone fast enough to get a takeout order, and I just want to be home with you, Britt. I've made you wait all day, and we were supposed to—we were going to—it was—I ruined everything by staying, and—" She chokes on a full sob.

Brittany wishes so much that people would be gentler with Santana's heart.

She scrambles to comfort Santana. "One," she says firmly, "you didn't ruin anything. And two, do you want me to come get you?"

"Marc says he'll fire me if I even think about leaving now," Santana sniffles.

Brittany's damp paper ball-heart crushes even tighter. She pouts in sympathy, even though Santana can't see her. Usually when Santana is sad, Brittany comforts her by holding her and kissing her hair and just letting her cry, but with Santana at work and Brittany at home, Brittany can't do those things right now. Brittany's arms ache, wanting for Santana.

"Do you want me to come to the café? I could just, like, sit at a table and order a million coffees and step to anybody who said mean things to you," Brittany tries.

This time, Santana actually laughs—though quietly and still with tears in her voice.

"That's okay," she says. "I think I can make it. I just need to hang on for a few more hours."

"You sure?"

"Mhm-hm." For a second, Santana turns silent, and Brittany wonders if maybe the call dropped, but then Santana sighs, sweetly. "Talking to you really helps," Santana says in a quiet, just-for-us whisper.

Brittany matches her tone. "I'm glad," she says honestly. "Helping you is pretty much my favorite thing."

Santana laughs again. She isn't crying anymore. "Are you sure I haven't wrecked our Christmas Eve?" she asks.

"Not even a little bit," Brittany assures. "In fact," she pauses, considering her next words carefully, "—I have a surprise for you for when you get home."

"You do?"

"I will."

Santana makes a pleased noise into the phone. She sounds excited in the same way that she used to when she and Brittany were little and their moms would cave to their begging, allowing them to stage impromptu sleepovers rather than making them end their play-dates immediately at suppertime.

"What kind of surprise?" Santana asks, smile in her voice.

"I can't tell you," Brittany teases, both because she hasn't worked out all the details of the surprise for herself yet and because she doesn't want to spoil the thing before it happens. "Just hang on for a few more hours, and then you can see for yourself."

Santana agrees to hang on and to channel her inner Beyoncé and not listen to the haters. She and Brittany express love to each other, say their goodbyes, and then end the call. The second they disconnect, Brittany gets to thinking. When she first told Santana that she would have a surprise waiting, she didn't have much of an idea as to what that surprise should be, but now she's pretty sure that she knows exactly what it should be and how to make it happen.

Maybe the idea comes to her head because she thought about her and Santana's childhood sleepovers while they were on the phone together, or maybe it comes to her because she's thinking of how their Christmas Eve should go and the words _cozy _and _warm _and _soft _keep playing through her thoughts.

Whatever the case, Brittany has no trouble figuring out where to start. She enters her and Santana's bedroom and strips down the bed, and then goes to the hall closet to gather backup supplies. She then spends the next hour rearranging the furniture in the living room, circling it up and outfitting it with all sorts of padding and drapery. As an afterthought, she snags one of the extra boxes of white fairy lights that she and Santana didn't end up using to decorate their tree, dangling several lengths of them over the sheets and blankets. Anywhere there could be a pillow or a soft spot, there is one.

Brittany even finds places for her laptop and the Christmas tree, just in case.

Once she's got the living room looking the way she wants it to—like something that should be on Pinterest or in an Eddie Bauer catalogue or whatever—Brittany sets about preparing dinner and smiles to herself as she fixes the meal because it will go perfectly with Santana's surprise, even though Brittany didn't plan things that way to start out with.

The goal is to make tonight as gentle and easy and nice for Santana as possible when Santana gets home. Brittany doesn't want Santana to have to stress about anything—and especially not making their first alone-together Christmas Eve special and perfect.

It's almost 8 pm by the time Brittany finishes making dinner and setting everything up, which means that Santana should be home really soon. Brittany paces by the apartment door, wondering if Santana will like everything. She probably will because Brittany is usually pretty good about guessing what Santana likes. It's just that Brittany always feels a little giddy about giving Santana a gift because Brittany wants Santana to like the gift as much as Brittany imagined that she would going into things.

When Brittany hears keys scrabbling in the door at 8:22 pm, she scrambles to find the right place to be for when Santana sees the surprise. At first, she sits down at the bar counter, but then she just stands in front of the door. She doesn't know how to hold her hands. Should she shout when Santana opens the door? Jump up and down? Her heart beats really super loudly.

For the first time all week, Brittany maybe gets why everything about tonight is such a great, big deal.

The door swings open, and in the first glimpse that Brittany sees of her, Santana is looking down, extricating her keys from the doorknob. She's taken her hair down out of the café regulation pony, and it looks kind of wavy—maybe from all the coffee steam behind the counter. Water droplets spangle the tresses, making it seem shiny black. Maybe it's raining a bit outside.

In California, sometimes it rains in winter.

"Surprise," Brittany says, not shouting, not jumping, just smiling a quiet, I'm-really-glad-you're-home-baby smile.

Santana looks towards the lights in the living room. She sees the low, white glow and the long swathes of white fabric, the way it cascades over everything like snowy slopes and chalet rooftops. Her eyes fall on the Christmas tree, roosted atop an overturned shoebox at the perfect height for lying under.

"You made a blanket fort?" she asks, a funny, diffident smile quirking at the corners of her mouth.

Brittany nods, inviting Santana out of the doorframe and into the room. She closes the door to the apartment so that it's just them, standing together in the lowlight. "I also made macaroni-and-cheese," she says.

"With ketchup?" Santana asks, hopeful.

"With ketchup for you, weirdo," Brittany says, pulling Santana over to her into a hug.

Though Santana seems happy now that she's home, Brittany can still feel the tension in her, the stiffness in her shoulders and back, even through the leather of her jacket. Fourteen hours of demanding customers and jerky Marc Michaelangelini wear heavy in her. Brittany breathes deeply, hoping that Santana will breathe deeply, too. Santana does, and Brittany breathes deeply again, and Santana does again, working into a rhythm. Brittany tilts her head and kisses the corner of Santana's mouth. Her lips brush rainwater. Santana's skin feels cold for California. Brittany keeps breathing, gentling Santana into being home.

"Merry Christmas Eve," she says.

"It's perfect," Santana mumbles against her mouth.

"Good," Brittany says, giving Santana's lips another quick peck. "Why don't you go put on your pajamas and get in the fort? I'll bring you your macaroni, and we can eat in there. Whatever we want to do, we can do."

Santana nods her consent. "That sounds amazing," she says, extricating herself from her and Brittany's embrace. She kicks off her shoes, doffs her coat, and hangs her purse on its hook against the wall. Then, with a cute, shy mouse-smile to Brittany, she scurries off down the hall to the bedroom.

Brittany grins and hums, pleased with her work. She enters the kitchen to gather up her and Santana's plates and drinks, plus the ketchup.

While she's fitting everything onto a tray, she hears Santana reenter the living room and crawl inside the blanket fort, grunting as she lowers onto fours and laughing when she sees how Brittany has the place decorated, with spare Christmas ornaments and lights hung up all along the sheets and throws.

"I couldn't find any instant _tembleque _at the store," Brittany calls, "so I just got us chocolate pudding in the little plastic cups. There's still that shredded coconut from when Mercedes made the macaroons, so we could maybe try mixing it in the pudding, if you want. I'll have to ask your mom for the recipe the next time you Skype her or something—like, unless you have the recipe somewhere already. If you want it, I mean. Santana?"

When Brittany reenters the living room, everything is totally quiet. She was talking pretty loudly before, so it seems like Santana should have been able to hear her, even with the flap to the blanket fort is half-closed, like it is. Brittany crouches down, setting the tray on the ground, and scoots forward, opening the flap.

"Santana?"

She finds Santana, head rested on a pillow, her eyes glassy and only half-opened. Santana breathes like sleep and seems about a minute off from it. Fairy lights dance over her face and catch in the sheen of her hair. When she sees Brittany, she looks up but doesn't stir from her place. She smiles dopily, showing her dimples.

"I'm sorry I'm so sleepy," she yawns. "I need to wake up so we can get this party started."

Brittany shrugs. "It's okay," she says. "You were busy winning bread all day. I meant it when I said we could just do sleepy stuff tonight."

Santana yawns again and forces herself to sit up from the floor. She rubs her eyes with messy fists. "Yeah, but we still have to celebrate," she objects. "You waited all day"—another yawn—"and it's still early."

Brittany shrugs and reaches back over her shoulder, pulling the tray of food inside the fort and shutting the door flap behind her. She smiles when Santana sees the shapes in the bowls.

"I got dinosaur mac," she says, "so it's festive."

Santana grins and snatches up a bowl and then ducks forward to plant a quick kiss on Brittany's chin. "This is why we are so getting married someday," Santana says, reaching for the ketchup bottle.

"For the dino mac?" Brittany teases, a warm, I-love-it-when-you-say-things-like-that feeling blooming through her chest like a flower. She reaches for a bowl of her own and makes a declining motion when Santana offers to pass her the ketchup bottle.

"Well, that, too," Santana smirks, digging into her meal.

Brittany knows that her parents probably wouldn't understand how wonderful it is, sitting cross-legged in a blanket fort, eating dino mac with Santana after they spent all day apart on Christmas Eve. Santana's parents probably wouldn't understand, either, and neither would Mercedes or Mike or Puck or Marc Michaelangelini. Brittany doesn't care that they wouldn't understand, though, because her heart understands in a way that her words could probably never fully explain, and she knows that Santana's heart understands everything in that way, too. Brittany can't stop smiling, and neither can Santana.

They grin sloppily at each other for the whole time that they eat.

"I can't believe you did all this and cooked dinner while I was gone. Have I ever told you how amazing you are?" Santana smiles, spearing another forkful of dinosaurs and ketchup.

Brittany's face heats, and she wonders if Santana can see her blush under the fairy lights. "Maybe once or twice," she says, all fluttery inside.

After they finish the dino mac, Brittany tells Santana to wait in the fort while she goes to get them their pudding and hot chocolate.

"Do you want to try the coconut?" she asks.

"Sure," Santana says, shrugging like she's up for an adventure.

By now, everything feels like a big deal, but not in the way that Santana had probably thought it would earlier in the day.

Brittany hums "Decks the Halls" while she waits for the microwave to ding. She's glad Santana likes the surprise so much and glad that they're finally together. Somehow, it's even more awesome than she had imagined that it would be.

When Brittany returns to the blanket fort with the tray, she finds Santana lying down again, her head propped on a pillow. "BrittBritt?" Santana says sleepily. "This would be a good tradition—for our Christmas Eves."

"You falling asleep on the floor?" Brittany teases.

"No, this. Just... us. Being together."

"Yeah," Brittany agrees.

Instead of offering Santana pudding and hot chocolate right away, Brittany clambers inside the fort and gathers Santana's head, careful, between her hands. Santana plies to Brittany's touch, allowing Brittany to lift her head into her lap and rest it in the sling of her pajama pants. Very gently, Brittany begins to trace her fingertips through Santana's hair, working through the slight damp, loving Santana's feel.

"Do you want to watch _A Muppet Christmas Carol_, mouse? It would be okay if you fell asleep while we watched."

"Yeah, let's watch it. And can we lie under the tree?" Santana mumbles, closing her eyes.

At this rate, Brittany doubts that they'll get to watch anything, and she knows it won't matter where they lie, but she doesn't mind. Santana turns in her lap, shifting so that her lips are close to Brittany's ankle, to the stretch of bare skin between where Brittany's pajama bottoms end and Brittany's sock begins. Santana purses her lips, painting a light butterfly kiss to the spot, gentle, gentle, gentle.

"Love you, Britt," she mutters, sighing deeper into sleep.

"Love you, Santana. Merry Christmas," Brittany says, kissing her own palm and then pressing it to Santana's cheek, letting it linger, hoping that it follows Santana quietly into dreams.


End file.
